Emmylou Hocking

The stillness of the bedroom unsettled me when we first moved in. The window has been locked and painted shut, and there is a long, thin crack in the door that looks like a painful wound.

Ruby Grant

I picked the strawberries at the edge of our garden, where the wildness and our tiny slice of heaven met. My bare feet sank slightly into the mulch. An unusual sound travelled through the trees

Martina Holland

Salt stings your eyes. You wipe your grubby hand across your forehead. Dirt smears your thigh as you dry your hand on your trousers. You grasp the pick with both hands. Your arms strain on the backswing. Thwack.

Hannah Gardiner

Some memories don’t stay where you put them. Some slip through the cracks between breakfast and the next breath of fresh air. Some are between familiar faces and a name you used to say every day but can no longer remember.